TRACKED
Day had scarcely broken when the old marshman came bustling out of his
cottage to see whether the fox—as he supposed the marauder to be—had
carried off any of his ducks. Before he had crossed the little garden,
however, he descried the snow-marks on the door and, from their size,
judged them to be made by a badger, till his eyes fell on the
unmistakable trail outside the gate, which placed the raiders’ identity
beyond all possible doubt.
‘Oters! Lor, whoever would ha’ thought it?’
And then, as he remembered that the mere was frozen and the creatures
shut off from the water, the expression of surprise changed to one of
triumph, and forgetting for a moment his decrepitude, he exultingly
exclaimed: ‘They’re mine—sure as eggs, they’re mine!’ It was not their
destruction that elated him, but the prospect—the almost certain
prospect—of securing their pelts, and of adding a sovereign to the
dwindling store in the thatch.
Of course, before he could dispose of the skins he must find the otters,
and shoot them when found; but what could be easier, he thought, than to
track them down with such a trail; and then even he, old and infirm
though he was, could hardly fail to hit the long-bodied creatures as
they left their couches and floundered through the snow. So easy did the
task seem in the first flush of excitement, before the difficulties
presented themselves, crowding upon him as if to shake him from his
purpose. The bitterness of the wind, the depths of the drifts, the
possibility—nay, the probability, of the creatures having sought the
cliffs, his own physical debility: all confronted him, but only to be
made light of and swept aside before he turned and hobbled back to the
cottage, determined at all costs to make the attempt.
On crossing the threshold he went straight to the hearth, his eyes
raised to the two guns and a brass blunderbuss that rested on wooden
pegs above it. The flintlock was within easy reach; but it was the
modern gun he meant to use and, standing on tiptoe, he managed to grasp
the hammers and take it down. A little over a year before, when he had
put the wonderful piece there, he thought he should never use it again,
never dreaming of such an easy chance as that offered by otters on the
snowed-up mere.
‘Can I hold straight enow, wonder.’ ‘Iss, sure,’ came the complacent
answer; ‘you can hold straight enow for that.’
Nevertheless, as if conscious that he could not and fearing to put his
enfeebled powers to the test, he kept blowing on the barrels, though all
the dust had gone, until at last, remembering the dark, snow-laden sky,
he raised the stock to his shoulder, shut one eye, and looked along the
gun. In his younger days man and weapon might have been molten together
in bronze, so steadily could he stand and hold; but now, as he had
dreaded, the sight zig-zagged over the pane when he aimed at a starling
on the medlar-tree outside.
‘’Tis no use; couldn’t hit a seal, leave alone an oter, with muzzle
wobblin’ all over the place like that—dear, dear, oh, dear!’ and he
sank into the corner of the settle.
But as he sat before the furze fire which a girl was tending, warmth
came back to his hands, the thought of the golden sovereign quickened
his blood, and he resolved to make a second attempt. Rising to his feet,
he again raised the gun to his shoulder and, holding his breath, aimed
at the bird still bunched up on the swaying branch. As the sight kept
fairly true to the mark, confidence returned, the old man’s face
brightened, and resting the weapon against the table, he set about his
preparations. He fetched from a drawer in the dresser powder-flask,
shot-pouch, caps and wads; he loaded both barrels, and replaced the
ramrod. Then he turned up the collar of his worn velveteen coat, pulled
the badger-skin cap over his ears and, telling the child he should not
be away long, sallied out with the gun at half-cock under his arm.
The trail led past the frozen-in boat towards the tossing withy-bed, but
just before reaching it, swerved unexpectedly, as if the creatures had
caught a glimpse of some forager who had forestalled them, or had all at
once thought it best to make without delay for the farther side of the
marsh. Bending his bowed figure as he turned, the old man set his face
to the gale and plodded bravely along by the side of the tracks, the
snow in places reaching half-way up his leather leggings. The depth of
it made him hopeful that the otters had not gone far before lying up;
so, as he drew near each bit of cover that offered harbourage, he raised
the hammers and held the gun at the ready. He did this again and again,
whilst beating the tussocky ground on the farther bank of the stream,
where the otters had stayed to quest before crossing the unbroken
expanse of snow that stretched to the foot of the hill.
At every stride now he was getting more and more under shelter of the
land; every score yards the snow was becoming appreciably deeper and
deeper, until at last it lay in a big drift that threatened to bar his
way. A break in the embankment, fluted and escalloped by the wind,
showed where the otters had tunnelled their way through; and the old
man, sanguine as to their near neighbourhood, after blowing on his
numbed fingers, tightened his grip on the barrels and determined to
follow. As the drift was formidable enough to daunt a younger and a
taller man, he twice shrank from committing himself to the smothering
mass. But again the thought of the golden sovereign, now as he believed
so nearly his, lured him on: he held the gun above his head, went at the
yielding obstacle, sank in it, disappeared all but hand and gun, fought
with it, and at last battled through. Furiously brushing the snow out of
his eyes, he looked eagerly to right and to left, thinking the game was
afoot and striving to escape; but among the laid reeds that met his gaze
no living thing stirred: only the big and the little trails, as plain as
under the wall of the duck-house, wound in and out amongst the stems,
trending in the direction of the mere. ‘No hurry, my beauties; I shall
come up wi’ ’ee by-and-by;’ and snap, snap, went the brittle reeds as he
made his slow way through them. He kept looking eagerly ahead as though
he expected to catch sight of the game retreating before his noisy
advance, but nothing caught his eye save the wing of a moorhen on which
some fortunate forager had broken his fast.
Yet though he saw nothing of the otters themselves, he came on evidence
in the snow which told him they had not spent the night wholly in
wandering. Between the reeds and the creek were the beaten places where
they had rolled, and a gunshot farther, the slope down which they had
slid. On sighting the slide he stopped, astonished that famine-stricken
creatures, as he knew they must be, could waste a moment in gambols.
‘Most playsomest critturs on God’s eerth,’ said he; but at once resumed
his murderous errand, now with grave misgivings lest he should presently
discover that the otters had kept straight on to the bar and cliffs, and
got beyond his reach. He was greatly elated, therefore, on reaching the
furzy foreland, to find that his fears were groundless, that the otters,
instead of crossing the mouth of the creek, had rounded the point and
passed up the inlet; for so he felt sure of coming upon them, and most
probably in the nearer of the two likeliest holts towards which,
whenever he peeped from under the sheltering peak of his cap, the
gleaming eyes were directed. It was the ancient pollard whence he had
twice seen an otter steal away as he sculled past the island on which it
grew.
‘They’re theere right enow,’ the old man said when he saw the trail turn
that way, and raising both hammers to full cock, he went on with a
stealth he had not before thought necessary. As he reached the island he
lost the tracks under the snow-laden tangle. This he proceeded to beat
thoroughly; but as he did not really expect to find the quarry there,
presently he ceased trampling, looked towards the hollow trunk where he
believed they were, called out, ‘Harkin’, are ’ee?’ crept as close to
the bole as he dared, and peeped through the cleft. He was obliged to
keep at some little distance to get a fair shot when they bolted; and
screw his eyes and crane his neck as he might, it was impossible to
distinguish the dark bodies in the gloomy recess. He felt sure however
they were there, and it occurred to him he might dislodge them with a
snowball. Taking up a cake of snow that bore the impress of his
hobnailed soles, he made two balls, which he hurled in quick succession
through the opening. The second was scarcely out of his hand before he
picked up the gun he had laid down, and stood ready to shoot the animals
as they escaped; but still no otter showed. ‘Not theere after all,
s’pose,’ said he; yet he advanced on tiptoe to the tree, kicked it, and
jumped back with an agility that showed his expectations were not quite
exhausted. Again there was no response: nothing stirred except the snow
that fell from the rickety crown. Then he walked up to the tree, and
peering through the crack, examined the dusky shell from root to branch
to find nothing save an old nest with fish-bones on the ground beside
it.
Convinced at last that the otters really were not there, he proceeded to
make a cast beyond the island, using the gun to steady him as he crossed
some exposed ice to the snow. There the sight of the trail brought home
to him his want of prevision, and threw him into a rage.
‘Drat my stupid old head, why didn’t I ring the eyot afore?’ came the
quick, hot words. ‘Once bit, twice shy,’ he growled, and strode from
bank to bank in search of a return trail which would prevent his being
fooled again. But neither on the open snow nor amongst the reeds was
there a sign that the otters had broken back. On regaining the track he
advanced along it, confident now that the creatures were lying up at the
end of the creek.
‘At laist, and worth all the trouble. In pride of pelt they’ll be. Take
your time mind, aim for the head, and the big un fust.’
The nearer he got to the end of the inlet, the more agitated he became,
until, on reaching the spot where the otters had passed in single file
between two tussocks before entering the brambles, he was in a fever of
agitation. But despite his excitement, the precautions he took showed he
had got himself well in hand, that he was anxious to make the most of
his hardly-earned chance. He raised the flaps of his cap that no sound
might escape his ears; he brushed away every particle of snow from the
barrels of the gun, and to satisfy himself that the weapon would not
miss fire, he raised the copper caps and saw that the powder was still
up in the nipples. Then, everything being ready, he began to trample
upon the matted sprays in order to drive the otters from their last
possible retreat.
He had taken some half a dozen steps when a patch of snow falling from
the brambles well in front informed him that something was afoot. On the
instant he stopped to listen, whilst his restless eyes sought the likely
points of escape, and the gun shook in his nervous hands. As the otters
did not show, he felt sure they were stealing away before him, and
carefully watched some reeds into which they must pass on leaving the
thicket. Seeing a slight agitation in the stems, he tore like a madman
through the rest of the scrub, and stood at the edge ready to shoot.
But, too excited to await the otters’ pleasure, after the briefest delay
he advanced again, not however with the reckless strides of a few
moments before, but with gingerly tread, as if now that the supreme
moment had come he was apprehensive of dislodging the creatures he was
so eager to kill. He had taken a few cautious steps when there was a
slight rustling; then, to his dismay, a bittern rose and flew down the
creek. Up went the gun, the fore-finger found, but did not pull, the
trigger; and the bird escaped without further scare. It was a terrible
disappointment, under which the old man collapsed. The gun fell from his
shoulder; his jaw dropped; the eyes, but an instant before full of fire,
were dull and listless. He seemed inches shorter as he staggered through
the reeds and along the gully towards a small enclosure about which the
banks rose almost sheer.
‘Niver can be in the Piskies’ Parlour to be sure; and yet how could they
get out?’
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when his eyes fell on the fresh
marks against the face of the scarp. Then he saw the footprints left on
the snow by the otters as they sprang to the lowest ledge.
‘Has the frost touched my brain, or the little folks my eyes? Nonsense!
nothin’ of the kind; thee’rt seein’ things as they are. Well, well,’ he
went on after drawing a long breath, ‘I’ve been wanderin’ about the
ma’sh for wellnigh fifty year, and come on many tracks, but never prents
like these. Lor mercy! must be a mighty big varmint as left ’em. What a
catch if only I could ha’ bagged un!’
The sight of the footprints had put fresh life into him; he determined
to follow as far as he could.
‘I’m bone-tired, but I’ll see it through if I drop on the track.’
Only a cat could follow where the otters had climbed; so he made his way
back to the creek and clambered up the high bank to the wind-swept ridge
leading to the cliffs. A forlorn figure the old man looked as he fought
his way in the teeth of the gale to the brink of the precipice, only to
find the trail end on a slab of rock, from which the spray had washed
some of the snow that covered it.
‘It’s all up,’ he said, turning his eyes to the great pile of loose
rocks farther along the cliff; ‘they’re gone to clitter. Now, old fool,
goest home along.’
After a glance at the sea, on which not a sail or a wing showed, he made
his way to the point of the bluff above the mere, and letting himself
carefully over the edge, succeeded by clinging to rock and tussock in
making the descent without mishap. At the foot he stood awhile to rest;
then, presently, set out across the snowfield for the cottage, his
thoughts full of the otter, which however he had given up all hope of
getting.
So convinced was he that the creatures were in the cliff that he
attached no importance to the trail he stumbled on in the midst of the
mere, till he came to the spot where the tracks forked; but there he
awoke to the significance of the situation.
‘Oh, oh,’ said he, as he checked his steps, ‘so this was where you
parted, was it?—one for the reed-bed, t’other for up along, the withies
most like.’
After a pause he added with a chuckle, ‘Jack oter, you’re mine yet.’
At the thought of the valuable prize falling to him he was all life and
energy again: the vigour of his stride showed it as he stepped along the
furrow made by the otter, with eyes fixed on the isolated clump near the
inflow through which he expected it would pass. His surprise and
excitement may be imagined when on reaching it and ringing it, he found
no sign of track on the snow beyond.
‘Niver can be in this morsel of a patch,’ said he under his breath, as
he took up a station between it and the reed-bed he felt sure the otter
would make for. ‘Yet eh must be, eh must be.’ Then, raising his voice,
he called out, ‘King Oter, thy time is come; show thyself and get the
business over.’ With that he began to beat the reeds with the gun,
trampling the stems as he advanced. In the midst of the clump he came on
the couch. He stooped quickly and felt that it was warm. ‘I knawed thee
was theere,’ said he; and crack, crack, crack went the reeds as he
levelled them with the ground.
Less than a dozen yards of cover remained when the old man, in his
anxiety to get a glimpse of the otter, knelt down and peeped through the
stems. Only the head of the otter showed, but the eyes of man and beast
met. Before the marshman could regain his feet, the creature had bolted,
making wild leaps in its attempt to escape. Bang! bang! first one
barrel, then the other; and the old man, who believed he had wounded the
animal, started in mad pursuit. For a few strides he actually gained on
the short-legged creature: but for want of breath he might have
overtaken it. As it was, all he could do after covering a score yards
was to lament his helplessness, and watch the huge dark form draw
farther and farther away. ‘What a grand beast!’ he gasped again and
again; then suddenly, ‘He’s down!’ he exclaimed, starting to run. But
the otter was not down: not a pellet had struck him: he was only lost to
sight in a drift. When he reappeared near the bar, the excited marshman
saw his error, and once more stood to watch. On reaching the ridge the
otter ran along it, showing his magnificent proportions. Once he stopped
to look back at his enemy; a few moments later he disappeared from view,
and the old man turned on his heel and made for home.